The Swirling Sea
by muchmadness
Summary: Formerly "I Can't Think of a Title," but then I thought of one. Lindsay experiences family trouble ish and then ... uh ... deals with it?
1. Chapter 1

When he slammed the door open, she was on the floor surrounded by tissues. They formed a half-wall around her; thin paper bricks and tear mortar. The smack of the door on the wall forced her head up, and her mouth dropped at the sight of him. The rain dropped from his hair and jacket like the tears from her eyes, and she almost burst out laughing at his stance in the doorway – one foot in, one foot out, arms spread from the force of his dramatic door-opening escapade. The kicker was his face – stunned, confused, and a little bit mad, maybe that she'd been so happy and bright and distant all day and then he comes home and finds this – this – antithesis to his perception of her feelings.

"What're you doing here?" she mumbled through numb lips.

"Ah, well, I, uh … why're you crying?"

Ah yes, that reminded her. And she started off again, a hiccupping, wet, painful sob that shook her forwards into her tissue wall, knocking off the topmost enforcements.

She tried to tell him once she started again, she really did, but the words didn't come out. Her crying had a mind of its own; the tears pushed away any words that had a chance of forming.

His body moved before his brain could fully react, because he was in comfort mode. He soothed her with his hands and his arms, and he tried desperately to understand her meager formations of words.

"Hewagh – _hiccup – _ablith – _hiccup – _acoulbnt" – and then she was gone, all sobs and sadness, no room for reason or explanation.

He pulled her face into his neck, crossing his legs and pulling her onto them. She grabbed two handholds on his shirt, squeezing so hard that afterwards he wondered how much ironing he would have to do to get them out.

He could feel her tear-laden eyelashes opening and closing against his neck, a gentle back and forth tickle, as she tried to expel the tears, as though she hated herself for having them. They traveled from her eyes to his neck, and down to his shirt, which he could feel slowly getting soaked.

He couldn't deny that he was still confused, and when there were lulls in the sobs, he would start to ask something – _Wha… - _but she always cut him off with a fresh onslaught.

_Alright, fine, I'll just wait it out, _he thought, but that didn't work either, because once the body-quaking wails had turned into irregular moans and hiccups, she was already asleep. _Hell, who can blame her? That took a lot of effort. _He'd never seen sadness leave the body with such force in his life. It struck him that if she hadn't been holding onto his shirt, she might've shriveled up and disappeared.

Which reminded him – should he be worried about dehydration? That was a hell of a lot of water that she just got rid of, and he was no doctor, but that could do some serious damage. He uncrossed his legs with some unsettling cracks and struggled to his feet, one arm under her legs and the other remaining tightly around her middle. He walked to her little kitchen, after closing the front door with his foot, making a mental note to lock it once she was in bed.

With some awkward arranging and jostling, he managed to get her a glass of water without moving her around too much or – god forbid – dropping her. He balanced the glass in one hand and held her up with the other and his forearm.

Placing the glass on her bedside table, he lay her out on the length of her bed, and set to work undressing her. It took serious _serious _mental focus to stay sexually neutral. He finally worked her into a pair of sweats and a giant tee shirt, and settled her under the covers. He went out and locked the door, and came back into her room.

_Fuck! Where do I sleep?_ He looked around the room for a couch or a rug to mask the cold hardwood floors, but found none. _We _have _slept together, it's not like it would be _that _awkward. Though the circumstances are a tad different … _

He settled for staying on top of the covers, ready to explain that there were a good two inches of fabric and a foot or so of space between them, should anyone ask. He kicked off his shoes and rolled on his side to face her. Despite the dark and his (seemingly huge) distance from her, he could make out the puffy eyes she now wore, and the pale face. He fell asleep contemplating whether or not to wake her up to force a sip of water.

She awoke to a fuzzy mouth and a hand, heavy but not uncomfortable, lying on her shoulder. She turned to find him on his stomach, one arm stretched towards her, the other under his head. He was almost completely dressed.

Her insides were mush as she remembered the day before. _Just let it sit, _she instructed herself, _let it sit for a while and come back to it later. _She remembered her mother laughingly telling her that same phrase, not about death, but about cooling pies. _Same thing,_ she told herself, and barely stifled a giggle.

His head sprang up at the slight sound, and with a soggy "wassappening?" he pushed himself up on his elbow.

Half of his face had the imprint of his hand; an involuntary tattoo. His eyes were half-lidded and he looked as exhausted as she felt.

"Drink some water," he instructed her, pointing to the glass next on the table with a yawn.

She struggled to sit up and reached for the glass and drank, her throat grateful for the relief.

When she turned back to him, he was sitting propped up against the headboard, hands in his lap, twirling his thumbs awkwardly.

"So-o-o…" he started.

"How did I get undressed?" She asked with a little smirk.

He reddened a little, and mumbled, "Nothin' I ain't seen before."

They were silent for a while. She was incredibly embarrassed, and wished he would forget the night before. He was incredibly worried, and wished she would remember it.

"My brother died," she said finally, and the finality of the statement stunned her into a deep quiet that resonated throughout the room.

He waited for a spell, wondering if she would continue or if she would just leave it at that, a vague fact that echoed in his head.

She crawled over to him and laid her head in his lap, allowing herself to touch the feelings that were sloshing back and forth in her body. She wouldn't wallow – god forbid – but she might let it sink in a little, and if that meant lying in her boyfriend's lap while she did it, then so be it.

He brought his hand up to her head and made long, soothing strokes through her hair. He let his fingernails graze her scalp, as though extracting the rough patches out of her mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, because in truth it was all he really could think of.

When the first harsh reality was smooth and softened by her mind, she let out the next.

"They're going to spread his ashes in Rhode Island, where he lived. His wife is there."

"When?" He asked softly.

"Next Friday. They want to wait a little while."

"When did it happen?"

"Three days ago. I found out yesterday."

His hand paused over her head for a moment, but continued after a beat. He kept gently raking her head with the same tenderness as before, yet his mind was racing. _Why the fuck did she got to work? What the hell was she thinking? Did I say anything mean to her? Was she sadder than normal? Did anyone else notice? Why didn't I know?_

He knew about her brothers. There were two. He knew that one of them lived right outside of New York, but the other – he must be the one that died. He'd always assumed that the other brother had lived back with her folks, but now he knew. He racked his brain for any information he'd gathered about either of them.

"His name was David. I guess I never told you about him."

_Thank God,_ he thought, _thank God I didn't just forget. What kind of jerk would I be if I forgot?_

He forced himself to stop thinking and focus on her. Every now and then he would lift her so she could drink some more water, but for the most part he kept his soft stroking of her hair.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hmmm… Been a while for this one, huh? This is kind of a weird addition. Ah, well. Oh, and I didn't say this before, but I own none of the CSI:NY characters._

They drove up to the funeral together. Danny never asked to go along with her, most likely because he wasn't sure if she'd say yes. He packed his bags and picked her up in a borrowed SUV. One day, he'd show her how fun trips on his motorcycle could be, but he was sure that showing up to a funeral on a Harley wouldn't impress her family much.

She didn't say much. She kept her eyes on the road, mutely aware of the beauty of New York State during winter. The trees were old and bent in their age, snow gathering in the creases and crevices of their bodies. Trees in Montana were strong and tall, for the most part, forests and forests that stretched out far and long. Her eternal view of Montana would be summer, when the world was fresh but not overly so, and the brown was orangey-red and vibrant, and the green burned her eyes with its color.

Once they hit the ocean, they followed it up the coast. Lindsay loved dark oceans. She couldn't stand the heated, sunny, forever crowded beaches of California, and she'd seen them every other summer as she visited her cousins there. She was a lover of dark and stormy beaches. She liked her ocean water dark and frothy, swirling and taking and coming and going like a liquid tempest. Danny noticed her longing eyes and the way she followed the waves with her finger on her window. He pulled into a lookout point and turned off the car.

She turned to him, "I didn't bring my swimsuit."

He chuckled, and got out. She followed his lead. They sat, wrapped in Danny's coat, on the cold rocks under the gray clouds, and watched the waves come in.

"We're going to be late," Lindsay murmured into Danny's chest. He wrapped the coat tighter around her and pulled her closer. Then he shrugged, bringing her body up and down inadvertently.

They arrived just as Lindsay had expected, four hours past the time she'd called in to her sister-in-law.

Helena was sitting outside smoking a cigarette when their car pulled up into the pebbled driveway. She looked up dully at the black car dragging up her drive and tucked one of her arms under her knees, leaning forwards slightly.

Lindsay had always loved Helena, with her swirling black hair and her misty green eyes. She'd tried to be like her when Helena had married into their family. Lindsay had been seventeen, impressionable and in love with Helena's lilting voice and tinkling-bell laugh. She'd been everything that wasn't Montana – exotic and cultured. But when she got out of the car to hug her, she found her brittle and tiny in her arms, like a deflated balloon.

"Helena, this is Danny," she said, not bothering with titles and the like. She'd get there.

Danny nodded and shook her hand, silent and observant behind Lindsay.

"They're here. Your parents, his friends," Helena said dully, flicking the end of her cigarette to let the collected ash spread to the mild wind. Lindsay couldn't help but think what David _was _in that moment, if he was a floating soul or just a pile of ash no different from the tip of Helena's cigarette. "They're weird and eating and they won't act right."

Lindsay squeezed Helena's hand. "I'll deal with it," she promised, "Do you want to go hide upstairs? It's cold out here."

Helena nodded briefly and turned to go up the winding staircase off the side of the house. She'd managed to avoid even looking at the small throng of people gathered inside the whitewashed house, a group that Lindsay was not pleased about meeting.

Danny pulled her back before they entered the house, grabbed her hand and slid her along the porch to his chest. He kissed her swiftly, sucking her bottom lip as he pulled away. She smiled and touched his cheek appreciatively.

"I don't know if you'll still be doing that when we meet these people," she whispered to his ear.

"Impossible."

She grinned up at him, and turned to the door. She took in a deep breath. She reached for the doorknob. She twisted it slowly. She pushed the door open with a rushing sound. With Danny's hand resting warmly on the small of her back, she stepped inside.

There were Monroes sitting on each piece of furniture. There was one on the couch, one on the easy chair, and another on the stiff backed rocking chair.

They mumbled their hellos. Danny found that peculiar. The woman clearly shared DNA with Lindsay, the clear, round face proved that. The man looked grumpily past everything he saw, but he tapped his foot in the same way Lindsay did when she was angry. And the older man in the easy chair in the corner must have been her grandfather, for his nose was identical to Lindsay's, but larger and scarred.

Any reunion, sad, happy, or in-between, involving Messers was overflowing with hugs and cheering and shouts of "you've grown!" Everyone smiled, even if they didn't want to, and nobody could hear anything for the constant noise and love. But the cold, unseeing looks of the three people in front of him said nothing, gave nothing, had nothing. Lindsay was a reserved person at times, but she wasn't _dead. _

She dragged him into the tiny kitchen, where half-made cookie dough sat patiently in a ceramic bowl. She washed her hands and started in on it, greasing a pan and readying the dough for forming into balls.

"I thought you had two brothers," Danny mentioned, washing his hands as well.

"Andy doesn't talk to us. Well, he doesn't talk to _them. _He calls me on my birthday, and Christmas, and all that." She was hurried, as though she had too many things to do. Her hands flitted and shook all around as she talked, brushing and waving at thoughts that danced around her head.

"They're, uh, pretty quiet," Danny grunted. He turned to find Lindsay staring wide-eyed at him. _Aw, fuck. Fix it, Messer, fix it! _"I mean, uh, they're … they weren't talkin', is all. Ya know?"

Her face unfroze, and she set back into motion at a slower pace, calmer. "You noticed."

Danny relaxed, too. "Yeah, I noticed. So what's up with them? If _I _hadn't seen you for two years, I'd be all over you."

She didn't answer, so he turned to find her elbows locked, her hands pressed firmly into the cookie dough, staring down at the mound of light brown mush encasing her fingers. Her eyes were bright, shining, and sad. Danny put down the tray he was buttering and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her head. He rocked her from side to side until her arms wrapped around his, and she twined her fingers with his.

"I hate them, they hate me. It's a long story."

"I'm sure they don't –"

"You don't know, Danny. They do. I'm used to it, so don't try."

That left nothing but to kiss her neck until she was putty in his hands. She spoke little to anyone but him that day, frowning and pouting and crossing her arms in front of her. That night, he covered her with his body, blocking the cold feelings that settled through the house.


	3. Chapter 3

_This story always takes me so much longer to work on ... _

* * *

Danny awoke to the creak of metal on metal. He leaned over to look at Lindsay, but found her gone, a draft in her place. He saw that the window was wide open, the curtains blowing gently into the room. He leaned out the window to see a dark shadow push the porch swing with one hand, and walk slowly towards the ocean waves rustling in the distance.

Danny slid out from under the covers, scooping up a quilted blanket from the floor. He crawled out the window. A small handprint smudged its way on the window pane, evidence that she'd used the same exit. Danny let his feet hit the floor with a soft thump, feeling the damp soil beneath the soles of his feet.

He watched as Lindsay walked out to the sea, following the waves with a slight turn of her body, then turning back to sit on a sand dune.

Danny only moved towards her when she'd stopped wiggling into the sand, her arms wrapped around herself.

He announced his presence with the shuffling sound of feet on sand, and dropped the quilt over her goose-bumped shoulders. He sat behind her in his wifebeater tank and his plaid pajama pants, pulling her into him with his legs and arms.

She readjusted herself in his arms, gripping his biceps as though he'd float away.

He nuzzled her neck with his nose, burying his warm face into her chilled skin in an effort to warm her.

"I miss him," she finally said. He knew she wouldn't cry – she'd done enough of that already. She said it so firmly, a fact she would never be able to change, not with any amount of science or logic.

"I know," Danny whispered to her throat.

They sat and watched the waves before them. "The water looks like silk, doesn't it?"

Danny chuckled. "I guess it does."

He wondered over her revelation, and found it true. The waves were like a black silken dress, shaken out to rid it of dust or moths.

"I killed the baby," she said firmly.

Danny pulled her back to look at her face to see if she was kidding. "What now?"

"There was a baby. My little sister."

"Linds, what're you talking about?"

"They hate me for it, and they have every right to."

"You're talking crazy, Lindsay –"

"She was almost six months old, and they put her in the crib. I was five. I wanted to hold her, but they wouldn't let me, so when it was dark, I –"

The words which had tumbled so quickly out of her mouth halted abruptly with a change in the wind's direction. She stood up, throwing off the quilt.

She turned to him, sitting with his arms out to the sides still formed to her body, and walked off.

"It's late," she called behind her, "we should sleep."

He scrambled up and struggled after her, the sand providing weak friction to his feet. He grabbed her arm.

"Linds, we gotta talk about this."

"No. It's late." Her bottom lip trembled.

"Honey, please. You gotta get this out. I won't love you any less."

"I didn't know," she said weakly.

"Didn't know what?" His voice was soothing, calm.

"She had asthma. I fell asleep in her crib with her and she suffocated."

Danny's grip loosened on her arm. She tore away from him and walked to the window again, sand spewing from her footsteps, sparkles in the dark night.

The wind rushed behind Danny, roaring and ebbing with each wave.

He jogged up behind her, grabbing her arm and twisting her around to face him. "I don't care," he said, and kissed her hard. She pulled away briefly, but her mouth reacted to him, and he knew it was right. He pulled her to him, wrapping his hand about the small of her back and pressing her to him. It was a kiss of reassurance, a kiss of nothing-matters-but-you. A kiss of you're-not-one-of-them.

He opened his eyes with his mouth still on hers, and watched the dark shadows flit and flutter in the top window, where Helena stood. Lindsay had told him that Helena hated sleep. She was a nocturnal animal, she'd always said, and thought the best things came about at night. Danny didn't agree. He liked the things that happened in the dark that he could never do during the day, but that didn't mean he was about to shun the things that were bright and full of sun. Her whole family was dark, somber. Lindsay smiled when the sun warmed her face, when it glittered off of metals and glass. She loved bright colors and daylight. But with them, with all of them around her, she was sullen and weak, nothing like the Lindsay he'd grown to know. He felt an incredible urge to spirit her out of there, to shove her into the car and drive faster than he had ever before. They were poison to her.


End file.
